


Shadows and Chrysanthemums

by blubu



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Abigail is just happy to be there, Animal Death, Blood and Gore, Child Death, Dadsbury, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Triumphant Wilson - Freeform, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Wendy's extremely sassy, Wilson's an asshole, you gotta get through the angst to see the fluff, you know what they say
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:33:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23406832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blubu/pseuds/blubu
Summary: After the loss of her twin sister in a tragic accident, Wendy is left a shell of her former self. In a fit of her own despair she pleads into the darkness to see her sister again. She didn't think the darkness would listen.
Relationships: Abigail & Wendy (Don't Starve), Wendy & Wilson (Don't Starve)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 36





	1. A Deal with the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> it's midnight and ive only gotten like 10 hours of sleep in the last week so i hate the summary but i can't do any better

_ A scream. The noise was deafening, screeching into the air and thundering in the girl’s eardrums. She could only watch, eyes wide, lips parted, arm outstretched as her sister, her doppelganger, fell, fell into the treacherous waters and spiky rocks below. _

_ It took her a long time to realize her sister’s scream had ended and her own had been filling its absence; so alike in their sound, in their tone. Horror lacing every vibration from their vocal chords. The small girl skittered up the rocks, pulling herself up and scurrying to where  _ she _ just was _ _ — _ _ where she was meant to be _ ― _ and seeing nothing but those raging waves. Those rocks, jutting from the ground.  _ Her body _ — _

_ Her stomach twisted at the sight, bile rising in her throat. “Abigail,” She gasped out, chest heaving and begging for air. “Mom _ ― _! Dad _ _ — _ _!” She slipped off the rocks, wincing as jagged pieces cut into her small, pale hands, and drawing beads of blood. _

_ “Mom! Dad!” _

  
  


Nothing was the same after that.

Everyone tried to go on. Her father sluggishly rose for work, her mother still kissed her forehead every morning at breakfast. Her parents tried to keep up a routine, although she couldn’t see why. There was no routine to her grief, no cure for the dark abyss that had begun to spread its way through her heart.

The house was so silent. Abigail always filled the halls with her rambunctious laughter, the sounds of her stomping feet, running amok throughout the house, sending an energy that no others could match. Other than Wendy. Wendy could keep up with her sister. Wendy frequently ignored her sister’s invites to games, claiming to be too invested in her books and studies to play Abigail’s childish games; however, Abigail always knew how to entice her into mischief. The elder twin would run off, do something dastardly that always put Wendy on edge, and come out victorious with enough bravo and confidence to enthrall Wendy and lead her into her next adventure.

Now when Wendy reads her books, there’s no thundering footsteps echoing under the floorboards. No bubbling laughter to fill her ears and distract her from her Shakespeare. 

Wendy can feel her. She sees Abigail with her almost daily now. A frequent sight is another version of that day — one where Abigail lived, where she fell into a bush of chrysanthemums instead. And how they laughed, how the whole thing was just so silly! Abigail always bested the odds! And they would run off, away to find some new dastardly stunt —

And her father would be there. Gasping, reaching out a hand and calling out her name. Not Abigail’s, because Abigail wasn’t there. She was never there. Wendy was alone, clutching a wilted chrysanthemum in her small hand, still throbbing in pain from the small cuts that riddled it.

Everything would just be so dark again. No Abigail, no light. And she’d take that shameful, pained path slowly back into that lonely, quiet house. That house with no Abigail.

Her mother had started locking up sharp objects around the house. It’s not that Wendy wanted to feel pain—she just wanted to feel anything. When she realized she wouldn’t be able to get what she needed, she started using other means as a way to feel again.

Plenty of butterflies roamed around her house, especially during Autumn. She’d wait for one to land, strike out her arm, and catch the little critter. Some had such beautiful wings, a wide variety of colors allowing them to hide among other colorful foliage. She found their freedom so enticing. How they could just fly away if they chose to.

It made her sad. Wendy couldn’t fly away. Wendy couldn’t escape this place with her sister. She pinched the bug between her fingers and ripped away its wings, tucking them safely in her other hand as she squished the butterfly dead. Gazing upon those wings, she felt no sadness at the butterfly’s death. It’s best to draw with references, and there’s nothing better than the real deal.

  
  


“Mother wants to send us away,” The small girl whispered to the flower held lightly in her grasp, resting her head against the arm perched on her desk. “She thinks there’s something wrong with me. That I need help.” She ran her thumb over the wilted petals. “Dad’s trying to discourage her, I think. Dad gets it.”

Dad had lost his twin too. He could understand what she was going through, Wendy thought. However Wendy and Abigail were so close. So young. Her father and her uncle had spent their whole childhood together before parting ways. Wendy doesn’t ever want to leave Abigail.

“Abigail,” She whimpered out, “you won’t ever leave me, right?”

The flower was almost warm then. Comforting, enveloping Wendy’s soul in something almost comforting and achingly familiar. No. No, she wouldn’t.

  
  


She has nightmares a lot. Of that day, of the sight of Abigail’s mangled body. The nightmares contort the already horrific memory. Sometimes Abigail climbs up from those spiky rocks and reaches out toward Wendy with a bloody, sickly green hand.  _ “It’s your fault,” _ She hisses out with venom.  _ “I’m never coming back, and it’s all your fault.”  _ All Wendy can do is cry, tell her she’s sorry and not to leave her. The Abigail of her nightmares doesn’t listen. Wendy awakes from these dreams in a cold sweat, chest painfully twisted in fright and lungs gasping for air.

Tonight was another one of those nights. She could only clutch that wilted flower to her chest, allowing that familiar warmth to calm the ache in her empty heart. However, tonight, something was different. A certain chill infected the air and brought with it goosebumps that ran along Wendy’s exposed skin. She sat up in her bed and pulled the heavy sheets closer to her chilled body. Everything just felt wrong. Everything feels wrong after her death. Abigail made everything better. Why isn’t Abigail here now? Why?

Tears dripped down her cheeks and fell upon the flower in her hands, running along the petals and dripping away. “I just want Abigail,” She whispered into the night, sorrow choking her words. “Please. I’d do anything.”

“ _ Anything? _ ”

A voice sprung from the shadows. Wendy snapped up, fear building in her pale blue eyes. “Wh-who’s there..?” She mustered out shakily. Wendy wasn’t scared of the dark — she found comfort in it, really — but she couldn’t help the fear that clutched her heart. The flower in her hand almost seemed to pulse with warmth.  _ Run _ , she could almost hear.  _ Danger _ .

Wendy didn’t listen.

“ _Just someone who wants to help._ ” The disembodied voice answered. She could now tell the speaker had a British accent. It almost seemed to come from all around her, not originating from just one part of the room. 

“Help me with what?” She dared to ask, clutching Abigail’s flower tightly. Her warnings seemed to be getting louder.

“ _ Well, with reuniting you with your sister, of course! _ ” The man answered. “ _ I’ve been conducting some experiments lately, you see, as I’m nothing but just a gentleman scientist. I believe I have a way for you and your dearly departed to embrace once more. Interested? _ ”

Wendy couldn’t help but nod despite the way her sister seemed to only grow in worry. The shadows began to twist before her eyes, creatures of darkness taking form just at the edge of her vision. She didn’t care. She’d do  _ anything  _ to see Abigail again.

“ _ Wonderful! That’s just wonderful, _ ” The man chuckled. “ _ So, you’d really do anything to have your sister back?” _

Wendy nodded again.

“ _ What If I told you I could take you somewhere you and Abigail can be together? Forever? _ ”

“You can take me somewhere I can see Abigail? And she’d be alive? She wouldn’t ever leave me again?” The shadows chilled her hands, sucking away Abigail’s warmth.

“ _ Somewhere you’ll never have to worry about anything ever again. No one will ever split the two of you apart. _ ”

Wendy felt as if this was all too good to be true. Where Abigail was now, there should only be one way for Wendy to follow. She always followed her sister. She’d follow her into death. But Wendy didn’t think she’d end up in Heaven, where her sister would definitely be. Wendy was too corrupt now. She hurt herself and she hurt innocent creatures. She was vile. Wendy could only hope Abigail wouldn’t hate her too much for dragging her out of Heaven. The flower burned.

“Okay,” Wendy whispered into the night. The shadows rippled around her. 

“ _ Okay? _ ”

“Okay,” Wendy repeated, voice picking up volume and confidence. “I want you to take me there, where I can see Abigail.”

The shadows cackled around her. She was so cold. There was something new to the man’s voice — something cold. “ _ Then shake my hand. _ ”

An inky black hand thrust itself out of the darkness. It appeared barely solid, translucent and dripping a thick black substance onto her bed. If this whole offer being too good to be true wasn’t enough to throw her off, those sharp black talons should have been. But they weren’t.

Wendy slipped her petite hand into the shadows, those black talons engulfing the view of her pale skin, and gave it a little shake.

The shadows screeched and laughed. Bright white eyes stared at her from the darkness, mocking her without a voice, peering into her frozen heart. Abigail’s flower became cold and wilted between her fingertips, pink petals scattering around the room as an icy blast of freezing air began to swirl around the enclosed space. She thought she could see a grinning face appearing from the darkness, but she was out like a light before she could ever confirm it.

  
  


Wendy found herself regaining consciousness what felt like an eternity later. A bright light beat down on from above, causing her to wince and turn her head to the side.

“You’re finally awake.”

That familiar English accent made her instantly snap her eyes open and sit up from the bed of grass she had been laying in. Standing above her was a man with spiky black hair (extremely well cared for, he must take pride in it), and a black suit with a blood red tie. He was quite neatly put together, she had to admit to herself, for being in the middle of nowhere. Speaking of —

“Where are we?” Wendy managed to croak out, her voice hoarse as if she had been previously screaming. The man sent her a chilling grin.

“People have called this place many different things,” He chuckled, “but most just call it the Constant.” He clasped his hands together and tilted his head, sharp white teeth reflecting the blinding sun. “You’ll find out everything soon enough, considering you’re never leaving.”

His chilling cackling buzzed in her ears. “Who are you?”

“I’m the king of this place,” He answered quickly, gesturing to himself to showcase his “magnificent grandeur”, she guessed. “My name is Wilson Percival Higgsbury. I doubt you’ll forget it.” He waved a dismissing hand.

“Wendy Carter,” The girl decided to reply stiffly and softly, staring down at the lush green grass. She took a quick glance around to scope out their surroundings. “Where’s my sister? You didn’t lie about that, did you?”

Wilson almost seemed bored with the question. “Of course not. I’m a gentleman and true to my word.” The blonde was sure she could hear a soft “most of the time” muttered under the king’s breath, but it was too soft to tell.

“Then where is she?”

“In the flower, of course.” He rolled his eyes. “Where else would I put her? That thing was already loaded with some sort of magic. Hardly any work on my part, though interesting to observe in the time you were unconscious...” His voice eventually trailed off, seeming to dip into some scientific ramblings Wendy couldn’t care less about. “Anyway, she’s there, and perfectly fine. You can call on her whenever you like.”

The girl fished the pink flower from her skirt pocket and held it close to her chest. She swore she could almost feel a secondary beating resonate with her cold, empty heart. “I can’t do this alone, Abigail,” She whispered, and held the flower into the air. In a split second the petals exploded in different directions. A mass of white escaped the flower’s confines and situated next to her, while the petals all found themselves travelling right back to her pocket. She took a quick peek and there it was; the flower had completely come back together. As for her sister…

When Wendy turned to Abigail, she was at first startled. Then, she was just sad. 

“You said you’d bring her back alive,” Wendy murmured in Wilson’s general direction. “You lied.”

The king scoffed at her. “I never said  _ that _ . That was your own assumption.” 

Abigail was an opaque white. Her shape and features were all there, the same overalls she was wearing, that same thick hair that could never be tamed like Wendy’s could, that gap between her teeth, and that look of  _ concern _ . Abigail almost never wore that look. Abigail was confident and always believed in the two of them and —

Wendy was just so sad to see that look of nervousness on her face. “I’m so glad to have you back, Abigail,” Wendy muttered tearfully. “No matter what.”

Abigail finally smiled that big toothy grin of hers, taking a quick little soar around Wendy to showcase her new ghostly powers, Wendy assumed.

However all good things must come to an end, and Wilson chose to open his stupid mouth again. It’s a shame, really. Wendy was quite enjoying the silence in the absence of his stupid accent. 

“This sure has been fun,” The king chuckled, “but I believe it’s time to take my leave. Remember, I’ll be watching. I’ve got to keep a close eye on my experiments, right? What kind of scientist would I be if I didn’t?” He didn’t wait for an answer, simply shooting her a sharp grin. “You should probably try to find some food. Night will be here soon.”

Before Wilson could leave, Wendy found herself only able to say one thing in her dead, monotonous voice. 

“Your hair looks stupid.”

To her credit he actually scowled at that, petting at the sides of his hair in offense before vanishing in a swirl of inky shadows.


	2. A Rise to the Throne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Wilson rose to the throne, and found a grieving child.

Wilson hadn’t sat on the throne for long before he had gotten bored. One can only plunge a world into chaos for the sake of science so many times before the results begin looking the same and the whole task becomes a bore. This world was at his fingertips now—the seasons, the animals, even the dark inner workings of the ruins below. 

Becoming king of this place was obviously not his original intention. When Wilson made his way through Maxwell’s door, he did it with the purpose of finding a way out of this hellish landscape and back to his shabby home in the middle of God-has-forsaken-me-nowhere. He’d planned to march right up to Maxwell and give him a little piece of his mind, maybe while throwing in a few ungentlemanly words, and demand a way to return home. 

Obviously, that didn’t quite work out the way Wilson envisioned it. When Wilson finally arrived, Maxwell looked broken, tied down by that nightmarish throne. He was just an old man imprisoned by the same forces that held Wilson to this place, he realized.

Even a king is bound to the board.

And then one thing led to another, really. Maxwell fell off the throne and turned to dust. It was an amusing spectacle looking back on it, Wilson chuckled, though at that moment he supposed he only felt horror at what had become of the once-king. Shadows sprang out and gripped his limbs tight, dragging him to the throne. He recalled shaking in the shadows’ grasp. Was he going to be cursed to the same fate as Maxwell? Trapped to that throne until some other foolish survivor found their way to that room and unknowingly set him free?

As his wrists became secured to his new prison, Wilson felt himself thinking back on all that time out in the Constant. There was death at every turn, but with that came a sickening sort of excitement that had begun to cloud his mind overtime. Life was a bore when he wasn’t fighting some big bad beast, or hunting down an army of ghastly, horrid spiders. Even dying wasn’t so bad after a while. There was a sort of release that came with death. He was always filled with a sense of discovery; with death came knowing what to do the next time around. And the next.

This place was almost liberating. Wilson rarely interacted with people before being taken to this world, and the pressure to do so evaporated when he realized he and Maxwell were the only actual people here. He didn’t have to keep up gentlemanly behavior with Maxwell, though. Wilson spit in his face too many times to count, and spat gobs of blood on his pristine shoes even more.

But most importantly, he was free to pursue his science on his own. No pressure from the general populace waiting on his “spectacular breakthrough”, or his parents’ scalding words that mocked him for his career choice. Even if there was no one here to present his findings to, Wilson was comforted in the fact that at least one person alive had witnessed the scientific discoveries made in this wretched place.

Now he was trapped. Imprisoned for an indefinite length of time. How did Maxwell pass the time? The phonograph was quite lovely at first, but quickly became an annoying racket that constantly filled his poor ears. Gods, when would it _stop?_ There was nothing he could do about it, stuck as he was. Stuck and alone.

Well, not truly alone. Never. They were always watching, filling his ears with Their constant giggles and unintelligible ramblings. The noise was always what got to him. That stupid phonograph and Their stupid laughter—always at _him,_ They’re laughing at _him_ —made him want to scratch his eardrums out until blood poured from his ears. He wasn’t scared of Them! They couldn’t get him now—he’s a king! He sat on this throne because he went through _hell_ to get here. He demanded respect! He _demanded_ They listen to him! He wasn’t some frail old man They could belittle for Their own amusement!

They must have been impressed by his new attitude. Or They found his demands amusing and wanted to see more of his hilariously ridiculous actions; like watching a wild animal in a cage. Whatever it was, They decided to give him more power. And give him more power, They did.

They allowed him the ability to step off the throne. They allowed him the ability to control and call forth shadow creatures. They allowed him the ability to traverse the board; allowed him the ability to change the seasons; the forests; the swamps; hell, even those big bads which once filled him with dread now obeyed his every command.

He’ll be the first to admit he became a little power crazy after that. Who wouldn’t? With control over the entire world at one’s fingertips, it was impossible to ignore the beckoning calls that power whispered so sweetly.

So he messed around a little. Both to test out his newfound powers, and to satiate his own scientific curiosities. Being able to control every variable this world presented him allowed him to test out a few inquiries he had accrued as a survivor. The nasty little spiders suffered the brute of most of his experiments. He hated those little things.

He found out that Deerclops always lost to Dragonfly. And to Bee Queen. It did, however, always beat Bearger. So it had that going for it. And Dragonfly could possibly be overwhelmed with hundreds of moslings. Cute little beings of destruction. Also, spiders could not swim. (He tested that one vigorously. You always have to test a hypothesis multiple times to ensure you get the same outcome. Or maybe, just maybe, it was because he _really_ hated spiders.)

But there was only so much one could do with a nearly infinite amount of power before they began to get bored. His perception of time was warped not long after he ended up trapped in the constant, though he supposed he spent many years just testing every variable this world had to offer. They almost seemed to never tire of his antics and endless tests, finding the destruction he brought upon Their world amusing, for whatever reason. However, They soon became bored when he began to run out of things to test and destroy. They wanted more: and he was inclined to agree. He needed to add a new variable. Something that could bring interest back to this world. Something that could intelligently respond to his hypotheses. Something like a human.

The pigs had some ounce of intelligence, but nothing like a modern human’s. Besides, they had spent their whole lives here. He needed someone who wasn’t used to the challenges the constant brought. Maxwell could have worked, if he wasn’t gone and dead. Oopsies. He doubted he would have been able to stand Maxwell even as a test subject anyway.

So that left Wilson with one option: capture someone from his world and bring them here. He told Them of his plans and They greedily gobbled it up. With Their help, he began searching for his new test dummy.

He didn’t want to be _too_ picky about who he chose. It’s not like he just had a plethora of desperate souls ready to be plucked anyway. But he wanted someone who was different than him; someone who could surprise him with their choices.

Who was more different than him than a grieving little girl?

Enter Wendy Carter. A 10-year-old girl from America living with her father and mother, mourning the loss of her late twin sister. Poor girl. She looked so happy in the photos of the family that decorated the halls of the house. The girl he saw trudging through the rooms was nothing like the shyly smiling girl which clung to her doppelganger showcased in those pictures. This girl had dark bruises under her eyes, dried tear tracks down her face, and a flower always clutched to her chest. 

He only saw her smile a few times. Usually it was when she was outside near that dangerous cliff. (Seriously, this location seemed awful to live with kids. An accident was always bound to happen eventually.) She would run around and climb up on those rocks, yapping and giggling away like there was someone there with her. (He won’t admit he had to fight against the instinct to pull her away from the cliff when she went too close to the edge a few times. He just didn’t want to have to find a new test subject. Promise.)

The scientist was almost afraid she was too far gone. Sure, it would probably be easy to lure in a deranged, mourning girl, but he needed someone that was mentally _there_ enough to give him proper results without choosing to run off with some apparition which didn’t even exist. However it was always easy to break her out of those delusions. An alarmed call from her father quickly ripped the smile off her face and seemed to leave her in a state of confusion for a few short moments, before she finally realized her sister was never there, and dejectedly marched back inside without a glance in her poor father’s direction.

(There was something familiar about that man, but Wilson could never quite put his finger on it.)

At night she whispered into the chrysanthemum always held tightly in her hands. At first he saw this as another sign of madness, but the shadows sensed some sort of energy in that flower. They suggested that perhaps, it wasn’t a too far fetched idea that her poor sister’s spirit really was trapped in that little thing. 

It wasn’t too hard after that. He made his decision to bring her in as his new test subject. There hadn’t been too much competition anyway—his other candidate had been a young woman in her 20’s, a scrappy pyromaniac named Willow. She definitely had an interestingly _fiery_ personality, but he feared she would just start destroying his poor nature if ever given any flames. (He could always just bring her in later: it would be interesting to see how the two could collaborate. But that was for another day.)

With everything prepared, he finally rounded Their assistance and reached out to her from the shadows of her room. And it turned out to be a great time too, with her already crying out her little eyes about the poor loss of her sister, perhaps not truly aware how close her sister really was with that chrysanthemum in her hands. It was simple, really. A few sugared words, little half truths and maybe a few little white lies, and Wendy Carter shook her hands with the devil, forever sealing her fate.

  
  


The king watched her progress from the throne. He quickly came to learn she was not the type to mess around and immediately set out searching for supplies. (He, of course, left her a blueprint to his science machine. Not everyone was blessed with his scientific intellect, after all.) After just a few short days, the blonde had already set up her permanent base with a science machine up and an alchemy engine on the way. He was impressed to say the least. Abigail’s spirit thrived in this place, too. After just two days she began to emit a bright light most prevalent during night and her form almost seemed to become more solid. The light had saved Wendy the third night after she had forgotten to set up a campfire before the night’s fall. Abigail huddled around her sister and allowed her light to envelop her as she slept soundly, safe from Charlie’s grasps. It was quite a sweet sight, really.

Did he feel bad for bringing a child here? The short answer was yes. Wilson was, at the very least, still somewhat human. He knows what he’s done is awful. But at least, at the end of the day, he managed to reunite two twin sisters, and got a new little variable for testing, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> imma be real honest: this fic mostly sprouted bc my dad recently died and i need father daughter fluff. itll come eventually lol.

**Author's Note:**

> i used the sorta Abigail actually died from that fall theory literally only for the point of angst tyvm. Wendy's my main and sometimes i just wanna hug her, her quotes make me so sAd


End file.
